hoofbeats heard afar
by casapazzo
Summary: Thorongil has left Gondor - but before he reaches home, he stops to see his old friend, Theoden.


Disclaimer:  Not my boys to toy with – it's all Professor Tolkien's.  And yet I toy with them anyway….   
Written for as a ficathon entry – the request was for a Aragorn-as-Thorongil and Theoden story, either slashy or not.  I chose to straddle.  Many thanks to Kelly.

_He came to Ecthelion from Rohan, where he had served King Thengel, but he was not one of the Rohirrim. He was a great leader of men, by land or by sea, but he departed into the shadows whence he came, before the days of Ecthelion were ended...He wished to go back to Rivendell and rest there for a while ere he journeyed into the far countries; and on his way he came to the borders of Lórien._ ~ Return of the King: Appendix A

* * * * * * * * 

It is a dark night, and a still one, the stars cold and distant overhead, and Théoden, newly Théoden-king, walks outside his hall in the late hours of the night.  The door-guards are used to him – often this has been his practice, especially of late – and only take care that the songs they sing to keep themselves awake are not the bawdier ones.  He stands at the edge of the stone walkway, looking long out over the land, now south, now east, but nothing moves save the Snowbourn, glittering in the distance.  

Suddenly, he hears footsteps, running but not frantic, and the voices of the door-guards challenging.  As he comes around the corner to see, they point toward him, and a night watchman from the gate approaches.  He doffs his helm and pulls in a few deep breaths before saying, "My lord, there is a man at the gate asking to see you.  He goes hooded, and on foot.  He will not give his name, only sends you this in token."  The watchman hands to Théoden a cloak-pin of silver, shaped like a many-rayed star.

"Let him in, escort him here," Théoden snaps, and the watchman bows before his lord's fierce gaze and departs.  Théoden resumes his walking, but it is quicker now, impatient pacing as he clasps the star brooch tightly.  Before long, the hooded man is brought before him, and without a word they go together into the hall.  

Inside, the man throws back his hood; it is Thorongil.  "My old friend," Théoden says, and they embrace like brothers.  "Come, sit."  He leads the older man to the long plank tables and fetches a cup of the hot cider kept over the small side hearth for the guardsmen coming off duty.   

"The hospitality of your hall is as welcome as ever," Thorongil says with a sigh, easing himself down to the table.  "It's been a cold journey north."  Théoden studies him as he brings the cup.  Both his hair and his tunic are shorter, and a week's growth of beard can't hide the new lines on his face.  He looks wearier and grimmer than Théoden can ever remember seeing him, and yet not so much older as he would have expected

"And you are as welcome to it as ever.  How long may I count you in my company?"  Théoden takes cider for himself and sits opposite Thorongil at the table.  "For by your late arrival, I do not think you mean to take up dwelling in the Mark again." 

"No, forgive me, but I must be gone again in the morning.  I'd hoped you still kept your night-time habits."  He swallows more of the warm drink, and his expression darkens.  "Now more than ever, I hear.  They told me at the gate of your father; I'd not heard before."   

Théoden doesn't move, but a certain heaviness creeps into his posture, and a tightness about the eyes.  "Indeed, I would be surprised if you had.  It's been but a short time since we sent out messengers with the news."  He pauses, lets some of the tiredness show.  "My father's passing was not unexpected, and I have been preparing, taking over more of his duties in the last few months, but…I still could wish to have you here again as when you rode for my father."  

Thorongil shakes his head and speaks with rough urgency.  "I was younger than you are now when I presented myself to Thengel, and all I know of lordship I learned from him.  And the summer we spent patrolling the east bank of the Entwash proves you can lead your _eored_ into battle without shame.  You are your father's son, Théoden.  You will be a good king."  He stands and stretches, taking a few steps about the hall as if he cannot bear to be still.  "Though it would give me great pleasure to live and ride among the horse-lords again, I cannot tarry.  I'm called away north, to my home."

Théoden lets out a startled sound and the older man swings around, a small smile tugging at his lips.  "You asked me once – do you remember?  You were just a boy, and I sat here in the hall awaiting your father's judgment – if I was from Gondor."

"I remember."  Théoden too, smiles at the memory, and the tight uncertainty that had been in his expression fled.  "I thought you must be a southern man, because you had dark hair, like my mother's."

"Well, I have been to Gondor, seen the White City, and ridden through the southern lands, and I have been away from my kin for too many years.  So now I go north, north and west beyond the Misty Mountains as swiftly as my feet will carry me -" 

"- which as we know is very swift indeed."

"- for there my heart lies, and my responsibilities."  

Thorongil laughs at the banter, but Théoden sees his that gaze ever strays to the north, as if he could see through the stout walls of the hall and across all the intervening miles.  "Home, heart and duty – powerful things.  In the morning I will give to you a horse, that you may reach them all the faster."

"Already you have learned the most important part of ruling – give kingly gifts!"  He jests, but Théoden  senses the real gratitude underneath.  "And for my part, I will tell you what news I bring from Gondor, and the eastern defenses."  

Théoden goes for his maps, and Thorongil paces the boards of the carved hall, running his hands over the columns.  Théoden returns, unrolling vellum sheets over the table, and they lean over the maps, heads bent close together, as Thorongil points to ports that were threatened, towns that had been raided, and the harbors of Umbar where he'd burnt the Corsair fleet.  Théoden's memory of the land of his birth is an indistinct shadow – he was only five when his grandfather died and Thengel was recalled to rule Rohan – but he remembers his mother's gardens in Lossarnach, and a summer riding furry hill ponies.  Thorongil tells him about fishing villages on the Anduin that now double as armed garrisons, some farming communities abandoned, and others become walled towns; and his expression grows grim and stern.  He rattles out ideas for defending the outlying fiefs, for raiding this or that stronghold and which of his plans worked, which failed, and which he'd never had the chance to try; they argue over them like old field commanders, debating points of strategy and local diplomacy as the fire in the hearth burns down.  And so their talk comes around to Minas Tirith, and the Steward's family.  

"Denethor will be a strong leader, I think," Thorongil says slowly, clearly choosing his words with care.  "He is quick of mind, and well-studied, honorable, though impatient in temper."  

A change of the watch has occurred as they talked, the retiring door-guard come through the hall for a quick swallow of warm cider, stirred up the dying fire and re-filled the steaming pot for the next men.  Thorongil rises as he speaks to re-fill both their cups.  

"Ecthelion is still strong, but he grows older, and Denethor has a two-year-old son, and is a year older than I."  

Théoden blinks in surprise, at the fact, and at the revelation of it.  "Always, through the many years you were with us, you have avoided saying anything of yourself.  Yet tonight you let slip two things about yourself, and I wonder at the change."

The other man is silent, back stiff and busy at filling their cups.  Théoden leaves the silence to build, listens to a gust of wind scratch at the eaves of the hall's golden roof, until pity moves him to speak again.  

"Denethor's son is two, you say?  Why then he is of age with my Théodred.  Perhaps when they grow to be men they will be closer of friends than the Steward's son and I, and our people will be the better for it."

Thorongil finally returns  to the table bearing their cups and straddles the bench.  "No doubt."  He seems to hesitate before meeting Théoden's eyes.  "I'm sorry I was not here when Elfhild died.  I regret never meeting her, that I never saw you happy with her."  

"I regret that too."  Théoden swallows hard against the rough catch in his voice; he now is the one to rise from the table, though he clasps Thorongil's shoulder and he covers Théoden's hand with his own.

The tableau is unbroken for a long moment, then Thorongil raises his cup and drinks deeply.  "What other aspects you may guess or glean of my life will mean little to you, Théoden, and less to Rohan.  Someday my name may be of some worth, to my forefathers or to other men, but thus far it is only 'Thorongil' who you should remember."

They did not speak again as he rose and drew his cloak about him, and received again with glad hands the star brooch that had been Théoden's gift to him at their last parting.  Théoden accompanied him out of Meduseld and to the stables, where he saddled his own horse and pressed the reins to Thorongil's hand.  Then down the tall green slope and past the sleeping houses to the stone and timber gates they walked, leading the horse between them.  Thorongil hesitated on the threshold.  He gazed back up the hill at the city, and then out across the rolling countryside, where a pale light glimmered faintly in the far east, in anticipation of the sunrise.  

"This much I know, and will tell you: fate will bring me back to Gondor one day.  I hope…"  There was but little light in the sky, yet Théoden could see his grey eyes under his hood, shining clearly.  "…I hope we may see each other again, ride together again as we did of old."

Then up he mounted, and turned his mount's head to the north.  Théoden did not stay to watch him ride out of sight.      


End file.
